


Plumage

by remiges



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2016 NHL All-Star Game, M/M, Rare Pairings, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 06:42:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13898481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/pseuds/remiges
Summary: Giroux has, god damn him, beautiful wings.





	Plumage

**Author's Note:**

> *squints* I guess I'm breaking in this rarepair? For your viewing pleasure, here's [a snap](https://enter-remiges.tumblr.com/post/171612160066#notes) of Claude and Tanger at the 2016 ASG, just smiling at each other and chilling. Nbd.
> 
> Cleaned up from tumblr and written for this prompt: _Giroux/Letang (“I’d rather sleep in the lobby than share a hotel room with a flyer.")_ Liberties have been taken with the ASG rooming situation, but not so much with actual bird anatomy!

Giroux has, god damn him, beautiful wings. Kris just wishes he could have made that discovery some time other than at three in the morning after the skills competition.

"What the fuck are you doing up?" he asks, rubbing his eyes against the light coming from the bathroom. Giroux is twisted around in front of the mirror, one wing extended, obviously trying and failing to reach a tricky spot with the grooved comb he's using. He doesn't quite manage to disguise the way he jumps at Kris' voice.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" Giroux asks, and even half-asleep and mildly hungover, Kris recognizes preening when he sees it.

There's some baffling part of himself that doesn't want to leave Giroux to it and go back to bed, though. Maybe it's the curl of Giroux's bare shoulders under the harsh light of the overhead, or just the time of night, but Kris finds himself asking, "Do you have oil somewhere?" like they're flockmates despite his own lack of wings.

"Does it look like I have a tail?" Giroux asks, eyebrows raised as he gestures to the bottle of oil sitting almost out of sight behind the faucet.

Then again, maybe Kris shouldn't have bothered. "Look, do you want help or not?"

Giroux hesitates, and Kris can see him weighing his options. It's too early to go find another flyer—or another Flyer—to help him, and Kris is willing to bet that it's going to keep him up all night if he doesn't manage to preen. And they're teammates here, aren't they? At least for this weekend, no matter how weird that feels.

"My mother had wings," Kris adds, softer. "I won't hurt them."

It takes him a minute, but Giroux finally comes to a decision. "Here." He holds out the comb he'd been using. "Do you know what to do with this? I just need the very back ones done, I forgot to pack my longer comb."

"Yeah, I know what I'm doing," Kris tells him, feeling more awake now. Giroux gives him one more look and then turns his back, stretching a wing out. His feathers are tawny and cream, with black bars on the primaries. The ones further up are darker and speckled with white dots, and Kris is gentle when he touches them to get Giroux to extend further. They don't talk, but it's not an uncomfortable silence. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, but everything feels slightly unreal, unconnected from whatever rules they're supposed to be following.

"Thanks," Giroux tells him when he's done, fluffing up his feathers once and then tucking his wings in.

Kris passes the comb back so Giroux can pack it in his toiletry bag. "Sure," he says, like he has any idea what just happened, and that's that. He falls asleep during the stretch of night that could either be called extremely late or very early, his fingers smelling faintly of oil, the firm curve of Giroux's feathers lingering in his mind.

***

The All-Star Weekend is fun, if pointless. Low-pressure, lots of booze, winged roommates. Okay, so maybe the last one is new, but it's a different environment. Maybe not different prejudices, though.

"I'd rather sleep in the lobby than share a room with a flyer," Nealer laughs at the breakfast table. "Good luck keeping your suits clean, man."

Kris could keep his mouth shut, but he's not doing this for Giroux, not really. They've got their own winged player in Matty, even if he's back down in Wilkes-Barre, and Kris doesn't need to put up with this shit.

"Better than sharing one with you," he says, stuffing the last of his eggs in his mouth. "Your snoring could wake the dead. And molt doesn't happen until the end of the season, dipshit."

Segs starts heckling Nealer, who chirps back, and Kris makes his escape. He catches Giroux watching him from the next table over when he leaves, his expression unreadable. Kris shrugs to himself and steals a blueberry muffin for later.

***

Photographs, autographs, the game itself, media questions, a couple of beers, and then he's alone in an elevator with Giroux. His blood is up, has been ever since the game, and he doesn't think he's the only one. It's sitting at a simmer right now, but he's pretty sure that's not going to last long with how close Giroux is standing to him.

They're almost at their floor when Giroux makes his move. "You wanna?" he asks, looking over at him with heavy-lidded eyes. If that wasn't enough of a clue as to what he was talking about, he ghosts a finger up Kris' thigh, dangerously close to where his dick is starting to take an interest in the proceedings.

"Yeah," Kris says, clearing his throat to get the word out. "Yeah, that sounds good."

They make it into their room without incident, and then they're fumbling at each other's clothes. Kris ends up on his knees, pressing biting kisses to Giroux's thighs while he undoes the bindings on his wings. When Giroux finally gets them free he stretches them out, and Kris shivers as the displaced air hits his overheated skin.

"Up, up," Giroux says, breathless, and Kris goes.

Giroux presses him down to the mattress and digs lube out of his bag before crawling on top of him, his wings out for balance. Kris can't help from thumbing the dusky pink of Giroux's nipples as he works himself open, reveling in the noises coming out of his mouth. It's not long before Giroux is slapping a condom in his hand, and then Kris is inside him, the sensation so hot and tight that he thinks he might lose it right there.

They kiss in a tangle of tongues and teeth, messy and uncoordinated until they manage to settle into a rhythm. The sounds of their bodies meeting is loud in the confines of the room, and Kris runs his hands up Giroux's back to feel the flex of muscle under his skin. When his fingers brush against the soft edge of feathers, Giroux flinches, hard.

"They hurt if you pull on them," Giroux warns him, stilling in Kris' lap.

"I wasn't going to," Kris tells him, but he moves his hands to Giroux's hips anyway. Giroux doesn't exactly untense, but he starts moving again. Kris arches up and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth in a silent apology.

The pace is a little slower after that, like there's been a shift in the atmosphere, but Giroux gets him there. Kris returns the favor while sucking a hickey on Giroux's collarbone, one hand cramping as he fingers him, the other on his cock. Giroux's wings flare out when he comes, but Kris is more focused on the way he bites his lip, eyes scrunching shut as he clamps down on Kris' fingers. It shouldn't be an attractive look, but somehow it is.

"You're not too bad, Letang," Giroux says after their breathing has slowed down. He's starfished out on the bed, monopolizing the pillows, one wing spread across the bedside table.

"Back at you," Kris tells him, swiping at Giroux's come with the edge of the sheet. Maybe it would be smarter to move to the other bed, put a little distance between themselves, but it's late and it's the All-Star Game and the mattress is soft and inviting. He doesn't know who falls asleep first, but when Kris wakes up in the middle of the night Giroux is still there, his wings tucked in and his arm heavy across Kris' side.

***

He's gone when Kris wakes up again—probably off to catch his flight—but there's a single tawny feather sitting on the pillow next to him. Kris is sure he was right when he'd told Nealer it was too soon for molt, and the feather is positioned too carefully for it to have been left behind accidentally. He picks it up and runs a finger up the length. He doesn't know what it means, if it means anything, but he's willing to bet that the rest of the season is going to be interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone is wondering Claude has barn owl wings! Barn owls have a special talon with ridges in it that they use for preening, which is what the preening comb is inspired by. The preen gland, or uropygial gland, is found at the base of the tail, hence the bottled oil. Now, who can I con into writing Flower/winged!Murray for me? :D
> 
> As always, come hang out with me on [tumblr!](https://enter-remiges.tumblr.com/)


End file.
